


Healing Hawke

by Penthesilea1623



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 11:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penthesilea1623/pseuds/Penthesilea1623
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders can't be with Hawke.  But he can be there to heal her whenever she needs him. Takes place during Chapter 4 of All That Might Be:  Possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healing Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> I was writing a chapter from Act II of my All That Might Be series, and this scene suddenly demanded to be written from Anders POV, to the point that I was sitting at the computer typing instead of cleaning up and preparing food for my guests on New Year's Eve. Happy New Year everyone!

He loves healing Hawke. Not only because it is healing her, saving her life in a few instances. Not just because it gives him an excuse to touch her, to put his hands on her skin, feel the warmth, to sense the blood flowing, to feel the life in her, and Hawke is so alive. 

When he heals her it is just the two of them. He and Hawke, and his magic in her. He should be ashamed of using his talents like that, but he can’t be.

It’s as close as he will get to making love to her, to being with her, to possessing her. He can’t have her. He can’t do that to her. Hawke doesn’t do anything by halves. When she falls in love with a man, she’ll commit everything. His cause will become hers. She’ll give her life, her soul for that man, whoever he might be. If she did that with him, it would destroy her. Crush her. Break her heart. And that would kill him as surely as the Templars no doubt will some day.

So he is there whenever she needs healing. He quite shamelessly drops whatever he is doing, whenever the call comes, abandoning his patients at the clinic whenever one of Varric’s urchins comes running in with a message. Refusing to notice the pleading stares of the refugees as he tells them the clinic will be closing. Just relieved that whatever injury Hawke has sustained isn’t bad enough that she’s carried into the clinic unconscious, or bleeding, or poisoned, or all three at once like that one time that still gives him nightmares.

So this time is no different when one of Varric’s urchins comes running in with a note:

_Blondie,_  
 _Yup, Hawke stabbed, nothing vital hit, not coughing up blood. Cursing up a storm. The mouth on that girl._  
 _V._

He arrives at the Hanged Man, ignoring Corff and Nora setting up for the lunch time crowd and goes straight up to Varric’s rooms. 

“Fucking carta!” he hears. “I’m supposed to go see the fucking Arishok this afternoon. I made an effort. Dressed well. And now my fucking armor has a fucking hole in it, and they’ve ruined my shirt.”

He hears the elf tell her. “Sit still Hawke. You’ll start bleeding again.” 

“Maker’s tits, I can’t even lift my arm. What kind of impression am I going to make hobbling in there like this?"  


“The abomination will fix it.”

“Don’t call him that.” She says sternly.

“I’m sure he calls me much worse when you’re not around.” Says Anders from the doorway. 

Hawke is leaning against the table. Strangely her boots are off, but her leather armor is still on, probably because she doesn’t like asking for help taking it off, doesn’t like to admit her injury might prevent her from doing it on her own. She’s an independent thing, has had to be, seeing how her family only asks or takes, never gives where she’s concerned. He never asks if she needs help, just does what he needs to, using the excuse that he’s healing her.

She looks up at him, relief flooding into her face, knowing he’ll stop the pain. He can do this for her. 

“The fucking carta stabbed me again.” She says forlornly.

“Yes, so I heard.” He looks at her carefully. Not pale, so she hasn’t lost much blood.

He puts down his bag and pats the table next to him. “Up.” He orders. He watches her as she climbs up, marking what movements cause her pain, what movements she avoids because they’re causing her pain. She’s a horrible patient because she’ll never admit a weakness, never admit how badly she’s injured. 

He looks at her bare feet.

“What happened to your boots?” he asks.

“Fucking rock in my boot.” She says. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Both of them?” 

She just gives him a look. “I’d look like an idiot walking around with one boot on.” She says. Which means she kicked the one boot off, but couldn’t move her arm again to put it back on so she kicked off the other one as well. 

So he doesn’t bother to ask why her armor is still on, just begins unfastening it. Her hair is down and all over the place. He wants to lose himself in that hair. Wants to grab it in both hands and pull her head back and bite that slender white column, bury his face in her throat. 

“You have anything to tie that back?” he asks. She reaches over and picks up a pencil that Varric has left on the table. He watches as she realizes she can’t twist her hair up with one hand and fasten it at the same time. He takes the pencil out of her hand before she needs to ask him for help, and gathers her hair together twisting it into a knot at the back of her head. Her hair is so soft now that she has the money for fine shampoos and such. He remembers when it was everywhere, and a little too dry and poorly trimmed by Carver of all people. He skewers it in place with the pencil and admires the long line of her neck, somehow resisting the urge to trail his hands down it. Moving to face her again, he holds the jacket so she can slip her good arm out, and then slides it off the other arm. 

The shirt she has on underneath is indeed ruined. He frowns at the twin gashes. “You were stabbed twice.” 

“Sodding dual wielding fighters. They’re fucking dangerous. Shouldn’t be allowed on the Maker damned streets,” she glances fondly at her own twin daggers, beautiful pieces of workmanship, not like that mismatched set he first saw her use. She grins at him as she says it, flashing that dimple that always makes him want to press his mouth to the spot where it appears. He knows she’s in some pain from the sheer number of obscenities pouring from her mouth. She only does that when she’s in pain, or very drunk. When the pain’s very bad she’s deathly quiet. He hadn’t realized that the first time he healed her of a serious injury, until she abruptly turned white and passed out. 

“A regular menace.” He says. “They should be locked up.” He unfastens her fine linen shirt, swallowing hard as her breastband is revealed. Isabela, he thinks, mentally cursing the pirate. Hawke’s undergarments having been getting increasingly erotic of late. He knows it’s been Isabela’s influence because Leandra would only shop at the best (stuffiest), proper (boring) Hightown shops. This particular item is a pale pink silk that almost blends in with her skin, and is trimmed with a sheer black lace over the upper half of her breasts. It somehow manages to be demure and erotic at the same time.

He tries to peel the shirt off with the same care as he took with the jacket, but the drying blood has made it stick to her back. 

“Ow.” She jerks away. 

“Hold still.” He says trying to ease the fabric off her skin while holding her in place. He’s starting to laugh because she’s as squirmy as a kitten. 

“It hurts.” She says slapping at his hand with her uninjured arm, starting to laugh herself. 

He gives her an exasperated look. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s why we’re healing you, remember.” He finally frees the shirt and slips it off, dropping it on the table beside her. He looks carefully at the parallel wounds, dipping a clean cloth in some water that Varric has wordlessly placed at his elbow. Not too bad. He takes a vial of a disinfecting potion and a new cloth and carefully cleans it again. Her breath hisses slightly as he does so. No cursing, just that drawn in breath. He’s hurting her. 

“Sorry.” He apologizes softly.

Her mouth is tight as she says. “It’s fine.” He knows otherwise.

He waits until he can tell the stinging has subsided and then carefully places his hands on her back and shoulder to try and assess the damage. 

She yelps and jerks away again. “Fuck, your hands are cold Anders. Remind me to buy you some gloves next solstice day.” 

“Well next time, try not to get stabbed, and you won’t have to worry about the temperature of my hands.” But when he moves behind her, he breathes on his hands to warm them, ignoring the knowing look Varric gives him. Sodding dwarf sees everything. He puts his hands on her again, thinking that it’s not his hands that are cold, but her skin that is so warm. What would it feel like to slide inside her? To feel that heat around him? 

She’s chattering away again, and not swearing as much. The potion is working then. “Well how was I supposed to know they’d go for a sweet little thing like me? Usually they go for the big glowering ones, with the big swords and shields.”

He glances at Fenris, who is indeed glowering in the corner. The elf looks up at her. “Perhaps if you had not killed three of his companions he would not have come after you.” 

Hawke just sticks her tongue out at him. If anyone else did that to Fenris he’d probably rip their heart out, but at her the elf almost smiles. Broody mage-hating bastard.

He starts to heal her, only to have her reach out of his touch to pick up some book that Varric has left on the table.

“Andraste’s tits, will you stop moving, Hawke?” She freezes at his words, giving him a suitably chastened look, but the minute he starts healing again, she leans forwards to put the book back down.

“Hold still! You’re worse than the children in my clinic.” he says and moves, placing one hand on the wound, and the other arm firmly across her chest to pin her in place. That his hand has come to rest on the soft upper curve of her breast is accidental he tells himself. He remembers the first time he saw them when he healed her after she took an arrow to the chest. He’s seen a lot of breasts in his days, as both a healer and a lover. None have ever been as perfect as Hawke’s. He can feel the gentle beat of her heart beneath his palm. He closes his eyes and starts to heal, sending his magic into her. He can feel his own heart beating now, the two of them together. The muscle and flesh knit under his touch. He concentrates hard. While he’s here, nothing will scar that perfect skin. There. The glow begins to fade. She breathes deeply and the movement presses her perfect breast into his hand. He stays still, prolonging the contact for a moment, and then reluctantly pulls back. She’s looking up at him gratefully. He smiles and reaches down and moves a curl from her face. “There.” He says. “That should do it.” 

She slides off the table and moves her arm, slowly at first, and eventually in a large circle. 

She smiles. “Perfect.” she pulls him down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You are a darling.”

He inhales the scent of her this close, almost overwhelmed by the feel of her lips on his skin. “Try to avoid the knives next time.” He says, more gruffly then he intended. He glances up to see a man in the doorway in gleaming white armor. Handsome. More than handsome. There was a time he would have made a play for him himself. Obviously wealthy (White armor? Really?). And looking at Hawke in a way that makes him want to shoot lightning at him. He can feel himself scowling. 

Who is this prat?

Hawke is keeping up a constant stream of chatter at his side. Something about spells to mend fabric and leather and then she catches sight of the prat. And her whole face changes. She lights up in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“Sebastian!” she says, her voice filled with pleasure. “You came!” She goes running over to him, and presses a kiss to his cheek. He only realizes when she is standing next to him in her bare feet how tall the man is. She barely reaches his shoulder. His elegance and grace disguise his height . He smiles charmingly down at her. 

Anders wants to hit him.

“A lady asks for my aid, where else would I be?” His bright blue eyes twinkle at her. He’s from Starkhaven, Anders thinks, recognizing the accent, wishing that whoever he is, that he’d just go back there.

She sighs in an exaggerated manner. “Always the perfect gentleman.” She says. He’s seen Hawke flirt before. Why is it bothering him so much this time?

“Were you badly injured?” The prat asks, his voice filled with concern.

Hawke brushes it aside. “That? I just got stabbed a little. Anders fixed me. See?” She turns showing him the length of her back. The prat swallows hard at the sight and Anders hides a little smirk, knowing just how that feels.

Hawke is prattling on about seeing the Arishok, and trying to put on her boots at the same time. She totters, nearly falls and though he takes a step towards her to prevent that, it’s the prat who reaches out and catches her with both hands landing on the bare skin just above her hips, almost spanning her waist, strong tan hands against that white skin. Anders’s hand curls into a fist. And then he looks at Hawke. For just a moment her emotions are laid bare, pure desire blazing on her face at the feel of those hands on her. In the three years he’s known her he has never seen her look like that. He glances quickly up to see the same emotions exactly mirrored on the man’s face. And it’s as if a fist has crushed his heart. 

And then the moment is gone. Hawke straightens up with a "whoops", the man’s perfectly composed mask is back in place. 

She ducks under the table to find her other boot, sticking a perfect heart shaped bottom in the air as she does so, and he watches the prat stare at it. She pops up again and grabs her shirt, talking the whole time. Talking a lot, even for Hawke. She’s nervous, he realizes. Hawke’s never nervous. He glances at the prat as she talks and the man is mesmerized, fascinated by her. Well on his way to adoration. Hawke slips into her shirt and it tears even more. She ducks away to borrow something from Isabela.

The prat greets Varric, who has apparently met him before. Varric introduces him and though Anders doesn’t actually manage to speak to him, he gives a grunt of acknowledgment. It’s only when Varric calls the prat “Choir Boy” that he realizes that Prince wasn’t a nickname. He’s a prince. 

Oh, marvelous.

Hawke waltzes back in announcing that Isabela is in bed with two sailors, and how does that even work? She doesn’t wait for an answer. Most of Hawke’s questions are rhetorical. He happens to catch the prat’s eye though, and the guilty glance away lets him know that the prat knows exactly how that works. Not as much of a gentleman as he appears apparently. He watches as Hawke realizes Isabela’s shirt is too big and rigs something together that is suddenly form fitting and revealing every slender curve while the red color just highlights her flawless skin.

She twirls around facing the Prince. “Well? Does it work?” 

The charming smile is back on the Prince’s face. “It does. You look lovely, Anabel.” 

Anabel. No one calls her that. 

Hawke turns to him with a teasing look. “Not too much of a ragamuffin, Anders?” Oh great. He’s the loser who called her a ragamuffin. He sees a perplexed look cross the Prince’s face and thinks if you’d seen her that day it would have been your response too. Though of course, you would have been too well mannered and charming to say it out loud. 

“You are never going to let me forget that, are you?” he asks. The dimple flashes and he can’t resist her. He smiles. “You know you’re gorgeous, Hawke.” 

“It’s always nice to hear, though.” She says saucily. She teases the elf again, again managing not to get her heart ripped out, and then turns looking at them expectantly. 

“Well come on, what are we waiting for?” she asks.

“I’ve got to get back to the clinic.” He says abruptly. It’s not a lie. He’s been neglecting his patients lately. 

Her face falls just a little. “Oh. We’ll see you tonight though, won’t we?” 

He shouldn’t. He has no money to spare, and certainly none to lose to the elf, but he can’t refuse her. “I’ll be there.” She whirls around and starts chattering to the Prince, who of course pauses to let her pass through the doorway first, as they head down the stairs. 

He just stares at the wall. He shouldn’t be surprised. She’s young and beautiful and kind and good. Did you think that she would stay unattached forever, just because it causes you actual physical pain to see her with someone else, he asks himself as he puts his supplies away. He looks at the empty bottle in his hand. He hurls it at the wall and it shatters. 

“You’re going to clean that up, right?”

He turns to see Varric in the doorway, his face unreadable.

“I dropped it.” He says turning away.

“Sure.” He walks over and picks up some papers folding them and sticking them in an inside pocket. “Interesting fellow that Sebastian.”

“Fascinating.” Anders says, his tone implying he is anything but.

“He’s a priest you know. Taken a vow of celibacy and everything.”

Anders just stares at him as a dim memory stirs of his patients talking about a priest. Caring, kind, blessed by the Maker with unbelievable good looks, devoted to the Chantry, right hand man to that useless old biddy, the Grand Cleric. A preacher of inspired sermons that uplift the poor and give them all hope while the Chantry itself ignores the starving crowds of people barely surviving in Darktown. It can’t be the same man. What was that man was called? And then he remembers.

“Are you telling me that was sodding _Brother_ Sebastian?” he says, pointing at the door, his voice louder than he intended. Even Justice, as much as he dislikes Hawke, is outraged at the thought of the Chantry getting its claws into her.

Varric hoists Bianca securely on his shoulder. “The world’s an interesting place, isn’t it Blondie?” And leaves him standing there. 

He waits only a minute and then grabs his staff. The clinic can wait, he thinks, and follows Varric out the door.


End file.
